Gathering of Angels(9)
God above, Annie—what have I done? Tears stung her eyes as she let the truth fill her mind.
I can’t protect you.
*
Marcus had the back door of the shop open when he heard music.
After a moment, he recognized the ringtone. Annie’s cell; in her rush to meet Eric she must have left it behind. He headed to the front, and found her phone on the back counter, half-hidden under the stick incense she had been sort of unpacking.
Marcus smiled and picked up the phone.
“Hello—”
“Listen carefully. I don’t have much time.” Marcus stilled, hearing, feeling the fear behind the urgency in the man’s voice. “There is a woman here, a woman you know, who needs your help. I will hold them off as long as I can. She will die—everyone who is a threat to that power will die, and I have to stop it this time. She’s in Huntsville, the police station. I texted directions. Get here as fast as you can.”
“Who—” The line was dead. Marcus checked for the text message. The man with the cryptic warning was named Simon, and he had phoned from Huntsville, Northern California. Marcus knew Gold Country well enough, having spent several weeks in the hills, avoiding people, small towns, and deciding how to cope in a world he no longer recognized.
He took a moment to write a quick note for Annie, then stalked to the back door, running the conversation through his head. With difficulty he shoved down the one name that flashed into his mind. Annie’s dreams were not real, no matter how fervently he wished the opposite. Whoever had been caught up there, they needed help. Marcus would not leave them to their fate, not when he could offer that help.
Locking the back door, he slid into the Jag, and checked for the next flight out to Sacramento.
He could travel faster than any human, even by car—but manipulating the machinery took strength he did not want to waste. And a plane would get him there faster still. The urgency in the man’s voice told him he would need the strength, and he had little of the time to spare.
*
The door to the station swung open. Expecting it to be Simon, Claire didn’t prepare herself for anyone else. And the power, the breath-robbing cold that radiated from the stocky man who strode in, slammed her against the back of the chair.
He kept coming, a smile spreading over the square, lined face. Here was the darkness that held Heather, that hovered over the town, barely contained inside the body of a man who held his own kind of power as chief of police.
“So,” he crossed his arms, like a woman would, fingers tapping his left bicep as he studied her. “You must be Claire. Where did you come from, little—no, not a witch.” Frowning, he leaned in, sniffing her. “What is that—I’ve yet to scent a power such as yours. What are you, Claire?”
She clutched the chair, shivering, decided it was safer to say nothing.
One hand shot out and grabbed her chin, his grip like cold fire. “Answer me.”
“A shopkeeper,” she whispered.
“Oh, you are so much more than a mere shopkeeper. And I am afraid you chose the wrong place to hide. Heather, dear, come release her for me.” He smiled as Heather obeyed, pulling Claire to her feet. “You are under arrest, Claire, for the crime of witchcraft. Fetch some sweats from the storage room, Heather, so we can return Joe’s clothing to him. Bring them back to the cells; I will require your assistance.”
He wrapped one arm around Claire’s waist, half-carried her to a doorway at the back of the station. The stink of his power clogged her throat, and the cold that poured off him left her gasping at the close contact. His smile widened.
Two cells filled the back room, a small desk taking up the rest of the floor space. He opened the closest cell, dropped her to the metal cot attached to one side of the bars.
“Ask,” he said. “I know you want to—I can feel the itch of your need.”
“Who are you?” She barely recognized her voice.
He leaned in, trapping her as he braced his hands on either side of her. “I am vengeance. Someone here betrayed me, and I died for that betrayal. Now I have returned, and I will destroy any who oppose me.”
“I am sorry for what happened to you.” Her throat felt raw, her lungs aching from the constant assault of his ice-edged power. “But I never met you before today, and I don’t mean you any harm.”
“You are a witch—or close to.” He sniffed her again. “Why can’t I peg—it does not matter. You will die, with your conspirator. And I will be rid of you and your threat.”
Claire shoved down her panic. She had never felt as helpless, as vulnerable. “I promise you, I am not a—”